


What the Water Gave Me

by Athenias



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), F/F, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance and Keith are idiots, M/M, Modern AU, Mutual Pining, Orphan Keith (Voltron), POV Keith (Voltron), POV Lance (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), klance, roadtrip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 15:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15367929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenias/pseuds/Athenias
Summary: The door, thankfully, doesn’t stick like it usually does and Lance finds himself face-to-face with Keith. His eyes are red, and he wipes a little bit of snot off of his nose with an arm. They stand like this, frozen while their minds catch up to them until Keith speaks, voice rough and raw and straight to the point.“I’m running away. Come with me?”OrKeith copes with emotions and the loss of his father in the literal worst ways. Lance isn't a fan.





	What the Water Gave Me

It was June. The skies were dark with an incoming monsoon. A bland woman with pale skin and blonde hair said that it was especially peculiar for June on the morning forecast. Remarked that everyone should make the most of the rain while they can. Joked with coworkers about how she was going to spend this out-of-place monsoon season indoors, with a cup of hot cocoa and nestled up with her husband and kids.

 

So what, it was raining and there was thunder. What did the rain ever do for Keith? Sure as hell didn’t help him when he needed it most. The claps of thunder dotting the sky didn’t bring his mother back from wherever she fucked off to or raise his dad from the dead.

 

The rain couldn’t make him feel anything other than the crushing grief and anger that grips him with a fury. All it does is wash away his tears as he slams the door behind him, shouting obscenities at Shiro, whoever the fuck his mom is, what have you. He spins on his heels to face his house, once bright and full of life. Now, all he sees is a house too big for him, too haunted for two lost boys trying to find their way in life. So Keith does what he always does when everything’s too much.

 

He runs. With one of his dad’s old fireman jackets on and a little too big, he storms down the driveway to a red bicycle he had thrown against the mailbox a week or so ago. It wasn’t the same as his car, but he didn’t have any money on him for gas or any idea of how long he was going to be gone. All he’s got is himself, his phone, a jacket drenched in the fading scent of smoke, and the mental image of the only other person in this godforsaken town to have any possibility of joining his spur of the moment plan.

  
_____

  
Lance couldn’t sleep. His mama was somewhere downstairs arguing with one of his siblings on the phone, and the dog just kept barking and barking at the storm.

 

None of his other friends would respond to his messages, either, so there’s that.

 

He sits himself up against where his bed hits the wall, reaching over the foot of his bed and snaking long fingers around the neck of some old guitar of his. With his head resting against the wall, he plays a long-forgotten melody without really meaning to. He drones on, minds empty of any thought with form. Instead of his typical late-night overthinking comes the cacophony of rain pounding against his window, drowning out the world so it’s just him, his music, and the storm brewing outside.

 

His phone buzzes on his nightstand. It brings him back from his empty place, crashing into the dirt. A text from his brother, complaining about the noise and telling him to ‘stop playing or else’. WIth a glare tossed over his shoulder to the empty wall, Lance strums a little bit harder, plays a little bit louder. Fists pound against the wall in retaliation. Another one of Lance’s siblings starts to play aggressively on their keyboard, a big ‘fuck you’ to everyone else in the house. He doesn’t even think they’re playing a proper tune. Just nonsense to irritate.

 

All noise in the upper level ceases when the sound of a broom aggressively banging against the ceiling down below courses through the house. “Calla la boca mierda!” Screeches Lance’s mama from downstairs. He can imagine everyone stalling in a similar matter to him-- hands hovering above their instrument of choice, shoulders tense. They wait in tense silence, seldom daring to even breathe. When her low argument on the phone continues, the weight lifts off of Lance’s shoulder. He breathes out deeply, strumming the last few cords with a careful tenacity.

 

Lance is in the middle of putting his guitar back to its little area when a rock hits his window. It hits in the quiet moment between thunderclaps and is so loud Lance can’t really miss it. Well, he probably did miss it the first few times in his face-off with his family and whoever the fuck’s stupid enough to stand in a monsoon to get his attention got impatient. Groaning, he turns on his ceiling light and stalks over to the window.

 

Keith looks up at him from the center of his lawn, dangerously large rock in hand. Lance blinks at him. He’s wearing some old looking jacket that’s way too big for him, and absolutely drenched. He lifts up his phone for Keith to see and sets to typing.

 

>[10:56 PM] Mama’s downstairs. Get under our porch for right now & I’ll let you in in a second

 

Lance lingers at the window, watching as Keith shields his phone from the rain, face illuminated by the light. Then he sets off through his house, opening his door and closing it with a practiced silence. He jumps over parts of the floor that creaks, takes the stairs two at a time and painfully slow. He sees his mama, still shouting on in Spanish. She sputters and storms into the kitchen right as Lance hits the last step. He grabs one of his many towels from a cabinet in the hall, quickening his pace to get shit done. The door, thankfully, doesn’t stick like it usually does, and he finds himself face-to-face with Keith. His eyes are red, and he wipes a little bit of snot off of his nose with an arm. They stand like this, frozen while their minds catch up to them until Keith speaks, voice rough and raw and straight to the point.

 

“I’m running away. Come with me?”

 

Keith glances over Lance’s shoulder. Sees the light in the kitchen, the registration across Lance’s shocked face. He holds a slender finger against his lips, snagging Keith’s wrist and dragging him inside. The door shuts behind him, quiet apart from the faint click of the door closing and Lance locking it. A towel is thrown over his shoulders in a rush, and they race up the stairs with light steps. They only stop once, Keith bumping into Lance’s back. One of his sisters stands in the middle of the hall, bathroom door halfway closed. “Not a word,” says the leader of the duo, blue eyes intense. She glances at Keith, eyes wide, then back to her brother. She does the motion of zipping her lips, crosses her heart with a hand. Lance breathes deeply, crossing the home stretch into his room.

 

It’s just as messy as Keith remembers. There’s clothes tossed on the floor, guitar resting against his bed, trinkets on shelves and video game controllers littered around an old TV in the corner. It feels lived in. Holds none of the ghosts he’s running away from. But then Lance is facing him, expression scrunched into one of his serious looks, and he blanches.

 

“Keith,” he says, in that same fucking pitiful voice and why was he stupid enough to even think Lance would-- “I know you. You make decisions without meaning them. Stay here for tonight.”

 

He quirks a brow at Lance, suspicious and crimson. He shows no suggestive behavior, only opens his closet. “If you still want to leave come tomorrow morning, I’ll go. No questions asked. Been meaning to get out of the house lately anyway. Too loud.”

 

“And if I don’t?” Why is Keith doubting himself? Of course he wants to leave. He can’t deal with another day of Shiro apologizing for something he didn’t fucking do, telling him that all the shit he’s doing isn’t good for him. Lance pauses, hand outstretched to some old clothes of his.

 

“Then you can stay here until you want to go back. My family loves you anyway, so there won’t be a problem.” Lance tosses clothes at Keith-- some cheesy saying is sprawled across the shirt with an equally stupid character. An old pair of gym shorts hit his face a second later. “Put these on and give me your clothes. You’re going to catch a cold at this rate.”

 

“Old wives tale,” Keith mutters, tossing the fireman’s jacket to Lance with care, his shirt a little bit less. “Be careful with that jacket. Just… hang it up or something. I don’t know how to wash it.”

 

Lance blinks at him, forgetting for a moment that Keith was right there, shirtless and soaking wet, instead trying to figure out why the jacket felt so… familiar. Lance’s common sense, you know, the one that looks vaguely like Pidge because god knows she’s the closest thing he’s got to some, figuratively slaps him across the face and tells him that it’s a fireman’s jacket, you stupid fucker, while also reminding him that he’s absently ogling Keith’s abs. So he turns his head to an empty wall, hands outstretched for his pants. The soggy, black jeans slam into his chest. “I’ll look it up. You know where the bathroom is if you need it. Don’t get caught by my parents.” Socks and a pair of shoes land in Lance’s arms, Keith deadpanning him in his new, wonderful pajamas.

 

“I know the drill, Lance.”

 

“Okay, but still,” he says, opening the door and glancing around the hall. The bathroom light is off and the door’s ajar, and all other doors remain shut. This time, he takes no extra steps to ensure his mama doesn’t see him. He stomps down the stairs, rushes past the kitchen, and fumbles with the laundry door handle to mask Keith racing across the hall into the empty bathroom.

 

He’s in the middle of shoving Keith’s clothes into the dryer when his mama appears in the doorway. “Mijo, it’s late,” she scolds. She sounds tired-- looks tired. Whatever one of his stupid siblings got her on about looks to have drained any sort of energy she has left. “You need to get some sleep.”

 

“I’m fine,” Lance says, flashing her a dazzling smile in hopes it can brighten up her otherwise miserable night. “You’re the one that needs sleep, mama. The world won’t fall apart while you’re out, you know.”

 

“You and your siblings make that very difficult to believe.”

 

He laughs, hands frozen with Keith’s jacket between them. With careful thought, he decides to go‘fuck it’ and toss it in with everything else. With careful movements, he sets the dryer, shoves in one of those sheets that smell like flowery chemicals. “Miguel was just being a little shit, mama. Doesn’t appreciate music the way the rest of us do.”

 

She lets out a little chuckle, bringing her son in for a brief, tight hug. “We’ll bring him around, mijo. Just takes time.”

 

Lance ushers his mom to her room, getting called a demon in the process. Then the house is quiet again. His dad must’ve let the dog into their room because a little bark passes the door. The bathroom door opens up above, and he sees Keith stalk through the shadows back into his room. The kitchen light’s still on.

 

Keith probably hasn’t eaten dinner yet, has he?

 

Lance’s room is quiet. One of his siblings snores in the next room over, and the rain pounds against the window with a passion. But it’s a better quiet than his house, he figures. That house was too quiet, even with the rain. There’s a crash somewhere below, and he can hear Lance curse under his breath. A minute later, Lance is shouldering open the door, cup noodles in hand and cheese and crackers under his arm. “Food,” he says like Keith is an idiot or something. Lance’s expression turns exasperated at whatever look Keith gives him, and he thrusts the noodles forward. “Just eat the shitty ramen, Keith.”

 

Well, if he has no choice…

 

Keith and Lance fall asleep after an hour of eating in silence and watching silent TV. Keith dreams of a faceless woman leading him to his death. Lance dreams of nothing but empty space.

 

They wake up at four in the morning. Keith is the first to rise, silent as he makes his way down to the laundry room and collects his clothes. When he’s dressed in dry clothes that don’t look like hand-me-downs from twelve-year-olds, he sits down next to Lance and prods his cheek with a nail. Lance blearily blinks up at him, burying his face further into his pillow. He mumbles something incoherent. Then he’s pushing his head up, eyes wide as his mind catches up with him. Keith gestures to the door. “Come on.”

 

  
_____

 

  
When Lance turned fifteen, his dad bought him a shitty blue pickup truck. It was no beautiful thing by any means, but it came with a kicking deal. If Lance could get it in working condition by the time his sixteenth birthday rolled around, it would be his car alone. Meaning, none of his siblings were allowed to use it.

 

So, naturally, Lance called up Hunk and the two spent a year learning about car engineering and the basics of being a mechanic. It was never Lance’s thing, but it stuck with Hunk which made Lance super happy because he got a working truck and helped his friend find a new passion.

 

What Lance is trying to get at is no one would be trapped in the house while they’re gone.

 

Keith throws the duffle bag full of random shit the two of them thought would be useful into the truck, nearly hitting Lance in the process. He makes no move to apologize, only relocates the bag behind the seats in silence while he gets the car started. Lance’s guitar is propped up in the seat between them. “Where would you like to go, madam?” He asks, shoving the side-view mirror out. Keith does the same, rolling his eyes.

 

“The middle of the Mojave desert, preferably?” He suggests, rolling up the window as Lance shoves the truck into gear, rolling out of the driveway and onto an empty street.

 

“Alright. California. That’s a start.” Lance sighs, pulling his GPS out on his phone and putting Keith on direction duty until they make it to the right freeway.

 

“I’m bad with directions,” was the excuse he tries to give him. Lance only looks at him pointedly, showing that Keith had once before shown the exact opposite of such. So Keith gets put on direction duty. They stop by a gas station somewhere in Buckeye to get coffee, because Lance is falling asleep at the wheel due to a fucked up sleeping schedule and Keith just wants warm food.

 

Some old people give them the stink eye like they know something. Lance almost tells them to fuck off, bites the urge. But he guesses something about the way he looks at Keith transfers the message, so when they’re leaving with a cup of coffee, a slushie, and some disgusting looking hot dogs, Keith turns on his heels and flips the bird directly at them with both hands. Lance cries out in shock when Keith races past him, cursing the whole way. They have to practically haul ass out of the parking lot, the old man high on their trail. Thankfully, he gives up by the time they’re down the street from the gas station.

 

Lance has to pull over to stop laughing. He presses his head against the steering wheel, shaking laughter escaping him for no real good reason. Keith doesn’t really laugh alongside with him, just looks at Lance in some startled awe-struck state.

 

When they get back on the freeway, conversation flows a little bit easier. Lance starts off with easy, boring small talk like asking Keith if he saw the meme Pidge sent in the group chat yesterday. He doesn’t even remember what the meme was, but he’s got to get Keith back around to talking with him before he gets to the deeper questions.

 

“I left a note for my family,” he says to break a silence that settles. Keith immediately tenses, wheeling on Lance to undoubtedly shout obscenities. “They’re not going to come and get us, calm down. I just told them that I needed to get away for a bit and that Hunk knows where I am. That’s a lie, but Hunk’s got my back until death so he’ll bullshit some location in the buttfuck of nowhere and hope I’m not like… dead or something.”

 

Keith still looks a little bit peeved, but doesn’t seem to be on the verge of killing Lance, so that’s good? “None of them better tell Shiro, or you will be ‘dead or something’,” he says, not at all seeming to mean the words that come tumbling out of his mouth. But the way that it’s laced with poison stings a bit.

 

Lance narrows his eyes on the road, focuses on the cracked streets and cookie-cutter building structures. Keith, upon realizing that Lance was now not looking at him and continuing to do so would make him a little too obvious, looks out the window at the same view. God, they hate Arizona’s architecture. Hate Arizona, actually. But Lance’s family is here and Keith… doesn’t have anywhere else to go. “They won’t. Have faith in my family and friends, yeah?”

 

“I’ve decided that your friends haven’t earned my trust because they’re all little shits--”

 

Lance extends his index finger from the wheel, gesturing towards Keith, “--excluding Hunk--”

 

“--excluding Hunk,” Keith repeats, “and I’d never trust them with my life ever. You included.”

 

“Aww! I’m touched.” Lance falls silent, cheery expression falling into something a little more serious. “But you’re still here.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“With me.”

 

“Yup.” He pops the p.

 

“I can literally crash this car and kill the both of us at any given second.”

 

“That’s the point.”

 

Lance pauses. He pulls the truck over, puts it in park, and slowly turns to Keith. His brows are furrowed in some confused, judging sort of expression. He shakes his head, mutters something wretched in Spanish, and continues on.

 

Hint number two that Keith is definitely Not Okay has been given and we’re only a good six hours into this fuckfest.

 

If this were a different story, that might be character development.

 

_____

 

 

They've parked a little ways off of a rest stop when Lance finally decides to grow a pair and flat out ask Keith his burning question because they’re a little too balls deep into this plan so it’s not like Keith can fuck off into the desert anything. Laying down on the bed of the trunk with some blankets stacked under him, he asks,

 

“What happened?”

 

And Keith, sitting on the edge of the bed of the truck, only pulls out a cigarette. Alarms blare in Lance’s mind, pounds against his skull. When the fuck did he get those? Scratch that, why the fuck would he get those? His father was a huge advocate for ‘stop smoking’ campaigns because of Smokey the bear or whatever the fuck, and practically drilled it into Keith’s mind. And whatever didn’t get drilled into Keith’s mind, Shiro pounded in using his prosthetic arm as a mallet.

 

Lance inches closer to Keith. The cigarette fits itself into Keith’s mouth. Lance is right behind Keith. There’s a lighter and--

 

“Hey!” Keith cries as Lance snags the cigarette from his lips. There’s a feral look that they share as the latter extends his long arm high into the sky. “Give that back.”

 

“No.”

“Lance--”

 

“Welcome to damage control, bitch.” Lance throws the cigarette over the side of the truck and lunges for Keith’s jacket. He gets punched in the jaw, but when you’re raised in a Hispanic household full of little shits you learn how to fight so Lance punches him right under his lungs. Knocks the wind out of him and earns him a few seconds of grace in which he takes a whole box out of papa Kogane’s old jacket, and is scampering off of the truck and around the side of the truck.

 

“I’m going to strangle you,” threatens Keith, still panting. “And then I’m going to have my smoke.”

 

“Keith. I’m taking these.”

 

“I can share I’m not some sort of animal--”

 

“--To throw them away.” Lance looks at Keith, currently braced against the truck. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing to yourself lately, but I know this will just kill you in the long run.”

 

He bristles, pale knuckles turning white as he squeezes against the metal. Hard. “Uh… Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

 

Lance is silent. Neither makes a move towards the other, but the intensity of their expressions sort of does the trick. Things click into place for him, a realization that this behavior wasn’t just teenage angst or giving into that bullshit romanticization of dying slowly. “Keith,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

 

And Keith turns crimson. His expression changes from shocked, angered, frustrated, then to some sort of bitter acceptance. “I know.” He knows, but he needs something. The cigarettes are low, he’ll admit, but it’s all he’s got on him other than his fake I.D. You can’t just rely on the high you get from danger and being around your almost… something all the time.

 

The cigarettes get pocketed by someone a little more responsible (though, that’s not even saying much). Keith plops back down off of the tailgate, glancing to Lance as he hauls himself back up to sit next to him. They’re silent, looking at the empty desert. A snake slips by a while off, chasing a jackrabbit. Then Keith speaks.

 

“You want to know what happened?”

 

Lance says nothing. He already knows the answer, so what’s the use in repeating himself? He just puts a hand a ghost away from Keith’s and turns his head a little bit away from the desert.

 

_____

 

Keith was drinking. Again. He doesn’t really know what sent him to his liquor stash, just that he was holding a half-empty bottle by the neck and unleashing every petty frustration against Shiro.

 

Shiro didn’t do anything wrong. He’d just stopped by the kitchen before going to bed, an opened pill bottle in hand and prosthetic abandoned somewhere else. His tired, tired eyes had looked over Keith once or twice and told him, in the most strained voice, “you need to stop this.”

 

Despite his well-wishes, this entirely innocent comment rubbed him entirely the wrong way.

 

Who was he to tell Keith what to do? He wasn’t his father, wasn’t his brother, wasn’t some counselor who had reached out to him in the halls.

 

So Keith went off.

 

Everything was a blur to him, but he clearly remembers--

 

“--You can’t just blame yourself for something you had no control over!” Shiro shouted, pill bottle gone. Neither of them knew where it went, but it was gone.

 

“How dare you try and guess what I’m going through?” Keith yelled right back, slamming his hand on the table. “You don’t know a thing about me!” A lie. Shiro knows Keith like the back of his hand.

 

“But I know that this--?” Shiro gestures vaguely, “Isn’t the way to get through it! Trust me, I’ve tried!”

 

“This isn’t about getting past my dead dad and fuck-off mom! And if you can’t get over your own losses to see that, boo-fucking-hoo!”

 

Shiro froze. Opened his mouth to say something. Keith’s chest felt tight. Closed his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. Opens it up again. His vision went blurry. “Keith, I--”

 

He needed to get out of this house.

 

“--I need to go.” He still looked absolutely pissed when he spoke, looking Shiro’s deer-in-the-headlights eyes in the eyes before turning on his heels. He paused as he threw open the door. “Don’t bother to look for me.”

 

Then the door slammed shut behind him, and he could hear Shiro’s footsteps racing to the door. Fast, thought Keith, we have to be fast. So he grabbed his shitty red bicycle and went as fast as he could down the street. He reminded himself to not look behind himself through hot tears, to not turn around and look at Shiro as he leaves. Too afraid of what he'd see. 

 

He cried the entire way to Lance’s.

 

_____

 

  
An argument with Shiro. Lance knows the two butt heads once in a blue moon (well, thrice in a blue moon now that Keith’s seemingly sent himself off the deep end), but an argument bad enough that Keith spontaneously ran away?

 

Weird.

 

Keith ends up falling asleep in the bed of the truck, nestled up against the window. Lance remains at the tail, brows furrowed. In his left-hand rests, his guitar slung lazily across his lap. To his right is a pencil, erasing and writing lyrics and chords on two separate note pads. The hours blur together. There’s nothing to bother him, to disrupt his busy playing, halting, writing, then playing again. Keith’s cigarettes feel like a boulder in his pocket, cementing him into place. He can vaguely recall bits of moments where he should have gotten the whole picture-- Keith showing up at Pidge’s with whiskey-breath and a very evident hangover, the smell of smoke remaining on his father’s jacket despite it being an older one. The list goes on and on until Lance thinks he can pinpoint the exact moment where Keith stopped being himself.

 

It was May. Keith hadn’t shown up to school, and Shiro was… very standoffish about it during their lecture that day when other students asked. So, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and Allura all stayed behind after class. They had checked the hall for Iverson, a common trend after they all got put on high alert for hacking into the Garrison. They didn’t grill Shiro for information, only cornered him and asked, “what happened?”

 

Shiro was hesitant. He saw the concern in their eyes and knew what sort of reaction Keith would give him later but dammit these are teenagers trying to comfort their friend. With a sigh, he told them as much as he could. Told them that Keith’s dad was on duty the night of the huge fire downtown last night. Told them that he didn’t make it.

 

Lance was the first person to show up at Keith’s house after school. He had made it under a guise of ‘checking to see if he was sick or being a jerk’ when Keith had opened the door, looked at him with bags under his eyes, and asked him what the hell he was doing here.

 

It was enough for Keith to let him inside.

 

No one mentioned the absence of Keith’s dad. He had tried to make an excuse of him being at work, but when Shiro emerged from the office with mutterance of how stupid some Garrison students are, the lie was basically transparent. Not that it mattered, they all knew anyway. Not that Keith was going to admit that he was now, officially, an orphan anytime soon.

 

Lance remembers how tired Keith looked for the next week. Sure, they eye bags went away after a bit (he assumed that Shiro forced him to sleep), but the light in his eyes was gone.

 

Then Keith got into his first fight of the year. It used to be one fight a year, and the other party always deserved it. Lance doesn’t remember what sparked it, just the flying of hands and a light back in Keith’s eyes, wicked and alive in such a twisted way.

 

Shiro had taken Keith away. He didn’t show up to many classes that day. Showed up for art, though, Pidge said. He didn’t follow the teacher’s instructions well, kept muttering about how he already knew this lesson. Normal Keith shit.

 

That’s when Keith saw the edge of the cliff, Lance guesses. When Keith decided to go over to the abyss below.

 

Keith stirs behind Lance. He looks innocent when he’s asleep, breathing slow and brows not knitted into some aggressive, feral expression. He’s… back to normal when he’s asleep.

 

Lance swings his numb leg, hoping to wake it up. His thumb strums against his guitar strings idly, and he’s back into the gist of it again.

 

His arms hurt with every movement. His wrists feel like they’re going to give up at any second.

 

So he does what he always does when he gets the feeling that if he stops he’ll never be able to play again.

 

He keeps on playing.

 

 

They wake up at six AM. Get some coffee from the rest stop, check their location before they’re back to shitty service. Keith vanishes for a bit, and Lance has half the brain to follow him, expecting to see him smoking some mystery cigarette at the side of the gas station.

 

Instead, he sees Keith sitting on the curb, looking blankly down at his phone. Text notifications cover the entire screen. He scrolls through them quickly, glancing at the names. Most of them are Shiro. Some of them are Pidge, asking where the hell he’s run off to this time.

 

Lance’s back pocket buzzes with notifications catching up to him. Most of them are family, cursing him out. He’ll do damage control on that later, he decides. One text is from Hunk, the most recent text.

 

>[6:21 AM] Don’t let Keith do anything insanely stupid.

 

He pauses. Opens their text thread.

 

>[6:33 AM] That’s the plan. Aren’t you glad I’m not reckless like him?

 

>[6:33 AM] pot, meet kettle.

 

Lance scoffs, pocketing his phone. He calls out for Keith, gesturing to the truck. “Ready to leave, samurai?”

 

Keith blinks up at him, expression unreadable. Then he’s shrugging, rising to his feet. “Sure.”

 

The ride starts off the same. Lance’s unnaturally quiet and Keith is his normal, brooding self. Except this time, the latter starts the conversation.

 

“You know, I really hate Iverson.”

 

“No,” Lance says, feigning shock, “really?”

 

Keith deadpans him. “He wants us booted out of the Garrison. Both of us.”

 

Oh. That’s new. “Why? We’re like, super amazing and shit!”

 

“Lance. I’ve gotten into seven fights in the last two weeks of school. You should know, you were in four of them.” He vaguely remembers throwing himself into a fight to save Keith’s ass, getting into a little squabble with him, or getting his ass saved by Keith. “And he just hates us, generally.”

 

And so, Keith and Lance talk again. It’s not much, they’ll admit. But Keith scoots a little bit closer and Lance blushes a little bit more, and they’re not really content, but they’re filling up little silences. They call Iverson a bitch, generally complain about life, and Lance tries to teach Keith how to play the guitar.

 

The last one goes horribly and almost ends with Keith throwing the fuckin thing out the window in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. Thankfully, Lance remedies the situation by suggesting he teach him properly when they stop for the night.

 

A very intense game of I-spy begins by one PM.

 

“I spy with my little eye something… beige.”

 

“The fucking desert.”

 

“No, you.” Keith fixes a glare to Lance, who wears a shit-eating grin. “Okay, fine. It was the desert.”

 

“I spy with my little eye something hot.”

 

“Ah, that’s a hard one. The desert?”

 

“Nope.” Keith looks forward, smug.

 

“The sun?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Oh, duh, it’s me.”

 

“Took you long enough.”

 

Lance almost stops the car, then and there. “...What?”

 

“Nothing. I was talking about the weather.”

 

“You can’t see weather, dumbass.”

 

“I don’t know, take enough drugs and you can see the weather and hear color.”

 

Lance doesn’t like the implications of that, but Keith slaps a pathetic band-aid on the wound with, “at least, that’s what I think happens.”

 

It’s enough for now.

 

It’s 8 PM by the time Lance decides to pull over to a gas station. They’re somewhere in fucking Nevada right now, because they weren’t really contempt with going for California. Something didn’t sit right with them about it, which sucks, because Lance has always wanted to go to California.

 

They’re arguing and bickering about something stupid. Lance thinks that it’s about his guitar or how his pages and pages of lyrics he won’t let Keith read. Keith tries to punch Lance in the shoulder to no avail. He’s about to tell the little shit trying to read his lyrics that there’ll be a time where he can read them (when they’re done and don’t make it painfully obvious that it’s just a little bit about him) when there’s a thud in the sand and a loud string of cursing.

 

Keith, naturally, wheels on the source with a pocket knife out. Seriously, where the fuck is he getting all of these things?

 

“Woah, woah, hey!” The source says, head popping out from the side of the truck. “I was just checking to see if you guys were killing each other.”

“Maybe we were. What’s it to you?” Keith asks, hostile again. Lance pats him on the shoulder, scoots over to get a better look at the person. She’s kind of tall and lanky, owlish eyes looking between them. Curly dark-brown hair cuts off beneath her chin. She’s wearing a large, ratty jacket, jeans, boots, and a plain shirt. Dark marks dot her skin like a constellation. She seems... decently young. Not really ax-murderer potential yet, but probably a teenager with some wicked skills in the art of beating shit until it stops moving. Pretty, he duly notes.

 

“I can’t have anyone dying on my turf. You know how easy it’d be to frame a murder on me?” She pauses as if giving them a chance to answer. Before either of them can, she continues, “super easy.”

 

“Keith, I don’t think she’s here to fight. Put the knife away.”

 

“But--”

 

“--Keith.” Lance places his hands over Keith’s, lowering the blade. “Please.”

 

Slowly, Keith folds up his pocket knife. Lance shuffles closer to the girl, extends his hand over the edge. “Name’s Lance. This idiot is Keith.”

 

The girl pauses, hand hesitantly frozen in the air. Then she’s shaking his hand, timidly smiling. “Mona. What parts you two from?”

 

“Arizona.”

 

Mona winces. “Unfortunate. I’m from here. Equally unfortunate.”

 

Lance laughs a little bit, Keith asking the next question. “Why are you alone?”

 

“I’m guessing the same reason the two of you are alone. High Schoolers, right?”

 

“How--”

 

“Lucky guess, edge lord.” Mona steps up onto the tire, bringing herself level to the duo. “Do you happen to have room for one more person?”

 

Keith speaks before Lance can even open his mouth. “No. Good night.”

 

Lance elbows Keith harshly in the side, turning back to the girl. “If you give us good enough reason, sure.”

 

Mona looks between the two, brows furrowed. She seems to be on the verge of asking something, just to be sure, before she gives her simple, simple reason. “Parents kicked me out. Turns out, they’d rather have no kid than a gay one. I’ve been hitchhiking my way to try and get to AZ, so if you’re planning on going back at any time--”

 

“--Get in.” Keith speaks curtly, gesturing to the truck. Lance grins to the ears, almost gives a remark about character development. But then he’s hopping off of the truck bed, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “I’ll be right back.”

 

She stares after Keith, the way he doesn’t even spare a glance at her or Lance as he trudges back to the gas station. Then, “did I say something wrong?”

 

Lance only pats the truck bed. She hauls herself onto the edge, spinning to face him. “He’s going through some shit. Not my can of worms to open, but it’ll be best to let me do most of the talking in his case.”

 

“So… Are you guys going back at all?”

 

“Yeah. It’s whenever Keith wants to go back, I guess. I’m just the one that drives and listens to his bullshit.”

 

Mona purses her lips. “Are the two of you--”

 

“--No.” Lance knows what she’s going to ask before she can get to the punch. He scratches dirt out from under his nails, ignores the throbbing in his arms. Letting out a rattling laugh, “God, I wish, but no.”

 

She huffs. Tilting her head back, she remains silent for a while. Lance pulls his guitar out of the back window, a practiced art of his. His notebooks are harder to grab. He doesn’t ask permission from Mona, only sets to work. Erase, write, play, re-write, erase, play, repeat. His wrist aches, his forearms throb. Mona hums along to the tune when it becomes familiar, eyes still cast to the stars. It helps Lance to forget the looming worry of Keith, wherever he is, and of the pain that blossoms down his elbows. The pain comes crashing down on him when there’s a scuffle in the dirt, and Keith’s looking at him. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a box of beer in his hands. He takes one look at Lance, his pained expression and the way his hands shake in suspension, and says, “stop playing.” His voice is gruff and raw (crying?) and dangerously low.

 

“You’ve picked your poison and I’ve picked mine, hotshot.” is all Lance says as he erases a single lyric, tapping the rhythm of the song on the paper. The whole line of lyrics doesn’t sit right with him. He erases it.

 

The notepad vanishes from under Lance. Keith opens the driver’s side of the truck and tosses it on the dashboard. All while looking him in the eye. Mona’s now paying attention, wary as she looks between the two. “Stop playing, or I will actually break your guitar.”

 

Lance tosses his wallet at Keith. “Get me some Aleve. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You’ll be fine when you stop playing.” Keith hauls himself back into the bed of the truck. Mona, as if sensing he wanted to be alone with Keith, pulls herself onto the roof and vanishes on the other side. Lance can see her sitting on the front of the truck out of the corner of his eye. Traitor.

 

Still, he lets Keith take the guitar from him. And put it somewhere else because, despite his threats, he knows how much the instrument means to Lance. Keith lifts one of Lance’s arms, muttering something about the difference between poison and a nuclear bomb. Calloused fingertips rub into the inside of his forearm, seeking out the tendons. His breath reeks of bitter beer. Vaguely, Lance remembers a conversation he once had with his mom after one of her brothers died about not feeling anything at all.

 

Keith’s chasing whatever can make him feel something. He doesn’t care what. Lance knows this, he thinks. Denies it all the way up until now, seeing Keith work out whatever tension he can in Lance’s arms.

 

Maybe that’s why Lance is here with him. To help him feel.

 

Huh. He’s a shitty plot device.

 

Sweet.

 

“Take a break,” Keith mutters. His previously cold, threatening eyes are now a more tender thing, cheeks a little darker. “Let yourself heal. Your music will still be there.”

 

“I’ll still be there,” Lance blurts, the words tumbling out before he can really think about them. Keith looks up at him quizzically, head tilted. He twitches his hand, brushing fingertips against Keith’s working arm. “Let yourself feel.”

 

“I don’t… Understand? Are you okay?” He looks up into dazzling blue eyes, dark brows furrowed. “Do you need medical attention?”

 

Lance laughs, a little bit at himself but mostly at Keith. “I’m feeling fine. You’re probably on the top of the world right now, considering there are only three beers left.” He gestures to the box.

 

Keith scoffs, digging a little too harshly into Lance’s arm. “Sure. I feel like actual shit and the beer sure tastes like it, but let’s go with your explanation.”

 

Called it. Lance knew he’d heard Keith say that he hated alcohol somewhere before. Besides, no one really likes beer. If you know someone who goes ‘hey, I like beer’ or you are that someone, congratulations, you know/are a fucking liar. Chuckling, Lance focuses back on Keith. “You know, Pidge can probably find a way to know who your mom is. So you can give her a piece of your mind.”

 

He blows harshly out of his nose, some light dancing in his eyes. Lance can’t tell if it’s good or bad, nice or angry. “I don’t want to find her. Not anymore. She had her chance to come back into my life long ago.”

 

Silence. Mona’s mindless humming adds to the ambiance of the night, the peace until Keith speaks again. “You know you can’t fix me.”

 

“I’m not trying to fix you. Shiro might, but I’m not. This isn’t some shitty wattpad fanfic where a single journey fixes the grungy bad boy’s baggage. I just don’t want the only person who means the w-- someone who means a lot to me to die of lung cancer or kidney poisoning or whatever the fuck else you’ve been doing. It’s not fun for either of us.”

 

“I want to punch you sometimes.”

 

“Feeling’s mutual and hey, you do punch me sometimes! Look at you, acting on your hormonal urges!” Lance chirps. Keith presses a little too hard against Lance’s arm. He hisses in pain until he lets up.

 

“I’ve got a few more hormonal urges to act on, and the night’s still young.” Keith gives one of his unintentional sultry looks to Lance, the one that makes him melt on the spot, and releases his arm. “You up for some good old fashioned breaking and entering? I’m thinking a pool?”

 

“Why the hell not. Mona!” Lance calls. There’s scrambling, and she appears on the roof. “Want to break into a pool with us?”

 

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

 

“Okay, and? I’m gay, nice to meet you,” Keith says, waving. He points to Lance with a thumb. “I’d rather be checking him out than you.”

 

“Aww, that’s the closest thing I’ve gotten to a compliment from you this whole time!” Lance chirps, hopping down from the bed of the truck and throwing open the driver’s side. “You can wait in the car if you’d rather.”

 

Mona lands in the dirt next to Keith. She hauls herself into the bed of the truck. “No, I’m going, fuck you. Also, I’ll chill out back here for now if you don’t mind.”

 

Lance and Keith definitely don’t mind.

 

Keith, still on direction duty, assists in getting them to the nearest public pool. Keith and Mona help Lance hop the fence despite his very obvious protests of him being able to do it on his own. “Lance, you have the agility of a horse on meth,” he says as he climbs the fence himself, landing next to him in half the time it took for him to even get up the fence.

 

“Uh… Thanks?”

 

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The pool’s kind of anticlimactic. The lights are off and Pidge isn’t around to macgyver them to live, so they just make due in the dark. Besides, Keith says it’s easier that way. If the lights were on, they’d be caught faster.

 

Well, Lance can’t argue with that. He makes a song about taking clothes off, a very wonderful song, he might add, even though some fuckers can’t appreciate it. Keith glares at him in the middle of taking off his shirt, revealing his recently-acquired muscles and abs and god, Lance look away look away--

 

Keith, similarly, spends a little bit too much time watching Lance curse and kick off his pants, shirt abandoned somewhere in the shadows. He thanks Poseidon, Thetis, and whatever other gods of the ocean there are for deciding that Lance join swim in freshman year because it turned this twig of a child into a sculpted god. Amen, praise Jesus, Kumbaya, Hakuna Matata.

 

Mona’s, thankfully, not having the same crisis as the other two-- thank god for Lesbians-- though she does spare a second to hit Keith a little too harshly on the shoulder and whisper “Gay panic” in his ear before cannonballing into the pool in nothing but her bra and underwear.

 

Someone’s going to kill Mona by the time this trip is over, and it’s probably going to be Keith considering he almost decks her on his way into the pool. Lance, however, remedies the near-murder by landing on Keith’s back, shoving him to the depths of the pool.

 

Keith resurfaces, heaving heavily. “I almost died,” He wheezes, and, much to Lance’s concern, grins to the ears. It’s kind of freaky, but at least he’s smiling? He swims back a couple feet, gesturing to himself. “Come on, give me your worst.”

 

Lance isn’t one to turn down a challenge. Mona sticks to swimming laps in one half of the pool, overjoyed to be swimming again-- was she a swimmer before-- you know what, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, Lance and Keith just go fucking ham in this pool. There’s a lot of giant waves because they’re actual toddlers, and just generally a lot of dunking and near-death experiences. Because, for some reason, it’s better to kill yourself via drowning than by whatever Keith’s doing according to Lance.

 

Their brutal, beautiful battle ends when Keith’s got Lance pinned against the wall of the pool, hands on the cement on either side of him. Noses almost bump, and drenched black bangs brush up against Lance’s forehead. Violet-grey eyes stare into him, and blue eyes stare right on back. “Hey,” Lance says, breathless.

 

“Hey,” echoes Keith, crimson.

 

A voice from the other side of the pool, booming, “What the fuck? Is this allowed? Is that allowed?”

 

“You’re pushing the fucking envelope, Mona!”

 

Bubbling laughter leaves Lance, hands leaving from the tile innards of the pool to press against Keith’s chest. A sputtering noise leaves him, cheeks turning from a pink to a red. He watches idly as Keith’s gaze flickers over him in a brief panic, stopping at his abdomen before abruptly snapping back up to his eyes. “See something you like?”

 

“What? No--”

 

Lance quirks a knowing brow, shrugging nonchalantly. “Unfortunate, then. I was looking forward to impromptu make-out sessions, not absolutely decking you in a public pool.” Before Keith can open his mouth, Lance shoves against him with his hands. Hard. They crash into the water with coupled yells. Keith struggles against Lance’s grip and the legs restraining his own. Lance just keeps him in a chokehold, only releasing his legs to get them standing and out of the danger of drowning because trust him, dying in a public pool in Nevada was not how he wants to go. Even if two hot people are there with him.

 

You know what? Lance thinks he just figured out one of his lyrical issues. Pity Keith stole his fucking notebook.

 

“Okay! Okay! Uncle!” Cries Keith, tapping against Lance’s bicep. Then again. And once more. He’s released into the depths of the pool, out of breath and giggling like all of his oxygen had been sucked right out of his chest. “Demon,” he manages.

 

“Careful, Keith. Don’t want to wake up La Llorona with all of this name-calling, do we?” Lance teases, leaning forward. They laugh at a memory resurfacing of Lance terrified of the spirit, hiding from his aunt behind Hunk, who brandished a stick ever so bravely. Keith had watched on from the sidelines, still wary about the whole ‘friends’ scene. They look back on the memory fondly now. Put aside all ‘what if’ scenarios where Keith would have joined in, picked up a tiny stick, and defended Lance from his aunt with Hunk. Because, regardless of what could have happened, Keith is still here with them.

 

Regardless of what’s happened, Keith is still here with them.

 

And Lance decides, during a truck-ride back to the rest stop, spent with one wet arm dangling out the window and the other on the wheel while Keith does wave-like motions out the other window to amuse himself, that maybe him just being here is enough for the both of them.

 

_____

 

  
Mona takes to sitting in the bed of the truck from there on. They leave the window open for her, so she can talk when she feels like it. Keith still talks. He responds to Mona stiffly at first, loosening up after a bit. Lance is the main contributor to conversations involving her, mostly talking about Arizona in the little, tiny bit of positive light he’s got left.

 

Keith keeps the remaining bottles of beer on hand. Lance thinks that he might throw them away, leave behind that portion of his life before they decide to turn around and head home. Lance… hopes that he’ll at least make an effort to get better.

 

He shouldn’t have hoped.

 

They’re stopped at a gas station midday, Mona vanishing with the promise of being back in ‘like, fifteen minutes’. Lance was left with the task of refilling the tank, because, apparently, Keith wasted the last of his scarce money at the Walgreens down the street for whatever reason.

 

There was a creak in the truck as someone climbs in through the passenger seat. Lance sees a flash of black hair and pale skin and continues watching the gas meter. He gets it to stop at a wonderful, wonderful even number. Silently, he mouths a congratulatory speech, thanking the academy and his mama.

 

Lance climbs back into the truck without much thought. He pulls into one of the empty parking spaces, changes the radio station, and presses his forehead against the wheel. His shitty AC drones on, almost drowning out whatever bullshit music the radio host decided to play.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of a beer bottle. Lance turns his head on the wheel to face Keith. Puffy red eyes stare down at a phone screen. Puffy eyes glance over to Lance. Chapped lips say nothing, only blink and return back to whatever torture the owner of them have decided to put them through today.

 

“You alright?”

 

“Yeah."

 

Lance deadpans an imaginary camera. “I thought you trusted me, dude. What’s up.”

 

“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine in half an hour.” Alcohol down the hatch.

 

The horn blares. Keith jumps, letting out a little yelp. Lance only keeps his head on the center of the steering wheel, eye contact unbreaking with him. After a good ten seconds, he lifts his head. “I wasn’t asking.”

 

Keith blinks at him, wipes tears from his eyes. “And I was answering. It’s nothing. Just some texts from Shiro.” Lance hums, leaning his head back. The metal of the truck is warm. He looks at Keith, a sign to continue. “He’s so- so- so put together, I guess? Meanwhile,” he gestures vaguely to himself. “I don’t know.”

 

“Feeling homesick?” Lance croons, poking his tear-stained cheek.

 

“Nah, just sick.”

 

“Don’t throw up on me or I _will_ leave you here.”

 

“You won’t,” Keith says, entirely too sure of Lance’s attachment to him. His playful gaze saddens again, glancing back to his phone. “You’ve lost family before, right?”

 

Lance’s mother, crying in the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear and a hand covering her mouth. Broken, ugly sobs leave her. Lance’s older sister tries to usher him upstairs, a solemn look in her eyes.

 

Lance’s father, hugging his kids with a secure tightness. All of them are crying, weeping, screaming for a sibling lost in a car accident. He’d almost forgotten her voice at this point, the way her blue eyes would crinkle when she laughs and how she used to play with her straws at restaurants. How she confided in Lance to keep her secrets. She would have absolutely eaten up Lance sneaking Keith into their house.

 

Keith doesn’t know about either of them. Neither does PIdge. Or Allura. Only Hunk, and a few of the teachers at the Garrison. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, hesitant as he scoots a little bit closer to Keith. Louder, “yeah, I have.”

 

“How did you… start feeling again?”

 

“I focused on other things.” Keith blinks at him, showing a vague surprise. “I picked music. You picked this.”

 

“Didn’t think I had other options,” he mumbles.

 

“You always have other options.”

 

“But I didn’t think I had other choices at the time, Lance. It was this,” Keith gestures vaguely, now irritated, voice rising. “Or I just bottle everything up. And you know what? I’m not exactly feeling like bottling all of this shit up right now.”

 

“Hey, it’s not shit--”

 

A hand grips the front of Lance’s shirt, forcing him towards Keith. He can almost taste the beer hanging off of his tongue. “Emotions are shit, Lance. I’ve been in love with you since sophomore year and It’s been tearing me apart ever since. Imagine what it’s like trying to shove down whatever the hell I’m feeling right now about my dad dying.”

 

What?

 

He--

 

Keith releases Lance with a sudden quickness, scrambling away like he’d just dropped a grenade. “Shit,” he says, mostly to himself. Then, “Forget I said anything.”

 

“Keith, I--”

 

“--Drop it. Please. I’m drunk out of my mind and I feel like I’m going to vomit on your dashboard any second. If-- If you do feel anything towards me, you can make a move whenever the hell you want. I mean, since everything’s out in the open, right?” Keith’s rambling. He doesn’t ramble often. Lance knows this just as well as the next. The only times he’s rambled are when he’s nervous, panicking, or extremely embarrassed. “But for right now just-- Just forget I said anything. Teach me how to play the guitar again-- something.”

 

Lance only takes one look at Keith, curled in on himself and about ready to slam his head directly on the dash, and says, “Okay.”

 

Mona, ever true to her word, lands in the bed of the truck with a resounding ‘thud’ exactly fifteen minutes after she’d left. Her head pops in through the open window, lips curved into a ghost of a smile as she looks from Lance to Keith and then the guitar in the latter’s hands. His brows are furrowed, and his face is scrunched into a pout that she finds… uncharacteristic compared to the first iteration of Keith she’d encountered. Lance, however, corrects Keith’s errors with a little laugh and reassurance. He spares a brief hello to Mona after his hands leave Keith’s, correcting his position on the neck or something of the sort.

 

“Are you sure you’re not--”

 

Lance fixes her with a glare. He makes a throat-slitting motion with one of his hands before they return to the guitar, making sure to give the confused amateur a few last pointers before he sends the truck sailing back onto the street. Mona’s face vanishes from the window, hands raised in surrender.

 

Keith plays the guitar horribly. His rhythms off, and he doesn’t really know how to play, but he’s happier with his playing than the last time he tried to play, especially after recent events. And if Keith’s even a little bit happy?

 

Then Lance’s right there alongside him.

 

They stop in the middle of the desert again, pulled off the side of the freeway and far, far away from civilization. Mona takes her sad, sad excuse for a dinner up to the hood of the car, shoes abandoned somewhere in the bed of the truck. Lance and Keith, meanwhile, play guitar and map the stars.

 

“I think that one’s big dipper?” He phrases it like a question, pointing a slender, pale finger up to a constellation. Lance scrunches his nose, his own fingers strumming a repetitive melody so that it would get stuck in Keith’s brain. Because if it gets stuck in his head, then he’ll work tirelessly until he gets it right, like the perfectionist he is.

 

“Nah, doesn’t look right.”

 

Keith huffs, rolling his eyes and pouting like a child. Which, they technically are, but he means the six-year-old kind of child. “How about that one?”

 

Lance narrows his eyes, tilts his head to the side. “Yeah, looks about right. Want to try out the melody now?”

 

The guitar passes from one to the other. He hums the tune under his breath, walking Keith through the cords once or twice then releasing him to his own creative devices.

 

And you know what?

 

He doesn’t entirely suck.

 

A smile blossoms across his face as he goes over the cords (in the right order, Lance might add), watching his hands strum with only slight hesitation. He dances a little bit in place when he pauses, a temporary victory dance. He even accepts Lance’s offer for a high five.

  
It’s midnight when Keith speaks. They’d tried to fall asleep for hours to no avail, plagued by fears of snakes and other dangers just… lurking. Mona was the only one of the three to be asleep, obviously used to the threat and generally not giving a shit.

 

“Hey, Lance?”

 

He shifts a bit, turning to face Keith, who has his face trained on the stars.

 

“I want to go home.”

 

Lance smiles. It’s a small thing, but when Keith catches his eye and turns crimson, it turns into a big thing.

 

“Alright.”

 

_____

  
Lance wakes up Mona by flicking her harshly on the nose. She only groans, punches Lance in the face and sits up. “Why,” is her opener, while Keith apathetically comforts him with harsh pats on the back.

 

“Well, my Mona Lisa, I was going to tell you we’re going back to AZ, but since you’re not in the mood for conversation--”

 

“Shut the fuck up, of course I’m in the mood for conversation. Just not at-- four AM.” Mona pulls her backpack out from under her, opens the zipper, and begins shuffling around inside. “How long’s the trip?”

 

“Like… fifteen hours?” They’d kind of stopped a lot to dick around along the way and acquiring Mona added a good five hours onto their time getting here, so if they act all business and shit it’ll be a walk in the park.

 

Mona purses her lips. Silently, she pulls out a stack of CDs-- mostly Disney soundtracks. “Then we’ll definitely need these.”

 

Keith swears Mona’s Lance’s long-lost relative. Sure, their mannerisms are different, and Mona was a little bit darker than Lance was, but they spoke the same. Held themselves the same way. Spoke of family (in Mona’s case, her godmother) with the same wistful voice and look. And when the opportunity arose, they even spoke of love in the same way. Hell, they made puns in tandem. When one would say a shameless pun, the other would back it up with an equally terrible pun.

 

So, basically, it’s the worst few hours of Keith’s life, especially when Mona ended up getting shoved out of his prized passenger seat because ‘I don’t bite, Keith. Sit next to your best friend’ (Mona had sent a wickedly sly, knowing look to Lance’-- one that no one missed but everyone ignored).

 

Nevertheless, he takes advantage of the proximity to Lance. Leans on him when he needs to take a very needed physical vacation from just… the existence of these two plays an aggressive game of footsie with him when he wakes up to the tip of a shoe prodding his ankle.

 

Keith won, by the way.

 

No one fucks with him when it comes to footsies.

 

Well, maybe Shiro. He’s the champion of any game involving casual physical assault.

 

Speaking of Shiro--

 

“Lance, Mona, is it alright if I call someone?” He asks, already opening his phone. The notifications burned. Not in a physical way, but it made his heart strain seeing the repeated messages of Shiro apologizing like it was his fault. Mona chirps out an ‘of course’, and Lance lowers the radio. The two share a look across from the truck, a sign of ‘shut up or else’.

 

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Blood rushes to Keith’s head.

 

“Keith?” Shiro sounds tired. And frantic. But there’s a sense of relief when he picks up, and Keith can just see him sitting in his house, worried.

 

“Hey.”

 

“‘Hey’? You leave me with dead silence for two days and all I get is a hey? I’m going to wring your neck out--”

 

“--I know, dick move.” Lance raises his brows in some registered surprise because Keith? Owning up to his mistakes? Apparently, it’s more likely than you think. “But I’m coming back home. We picked up someone along the way, so is it alright if they spend the night?” Mona looks confused, wondering when she came into this equation.

 

“Oh my God, did you pick up another hobo I swear to God--”

 

“-- The hobo was Pidge, you fucker. Anyway, she’s technically a hobo? Just let her stay. She’s a little bit younger than we are, and she’s trying to get to family.”

 

“Okay, first, why did you agree to take a kid hitchhiking and two, who the fuck is ‘we’?”

 

Keith glances at Mona, then focuses back on the road and the heat of Lance’s shoulder against his. “Her family kicked her out. Didn’t approve of her lifestyle. Got it? Got it.” Shiro makes a ‘huh’ sound, signaling that he did, in fact, get it. “And ‘we’ refers to me, Lance, and his really shitty truck that somehow hasn’t broken down.”

 

“We should start a queer band and call it ‘the Runaways’,” Lance blurts. Keith elbows him harshly, earning a yell. He fixes Mona with a glare, her mouth open in response.

 

There’s a thud. Knowing Shiro, he probably just hit his head on a table. “You-- He-- Are you-- Give the phone to Lance.”

 

“Whassup?” Lance croons after Keith positions the phone between his shoulder and his ear. He winces at something Shiro says, then laughs nervously. “No, no, he’s been a doll. Of course, I’m kidding, Shiro. Your godson’s a fucking nightmare.” He blows a kiss at Keith, who reddens. “Also kidding. He did some shit that rubbed me the wrong way, we might’ve gotten into a fistfight in front of a seven-eleven? Can’t remember. Other than that, he’s been almost normal. No, no he hasn’t. I made sure of it. What? No! Why are you like this? Seriously, dude? Have a little faith in me.”

 

Keith snorts an ugly sound that sends Mona into a fit of laughter. After a bit of conversing, Lance returns the phone to him. He raises his hands in a ‘what can you do’ gesture, steering with his knees. “We’ll be back in-- what was it, Lance? Seven hours. I’m under strict instructions to tell you not to tell Lance’s family because they’ll have time to prepare a proper ass-whooping.”

 

“I’m going to tell Hunk and Coran.”

 

“Smart. Tell the worst gossips in this shithole town. I see you.”

 

“Hunk has a right as Lance’s best friend and Coran… Coran’s Coran.”

 

No arguing with that.

 

They spend the next seven hours playing an intense game of never have I ever, in which Keith learns a little too much about Mona’s experiences on the streets, and Lance learns a little too much about what Keith’s been doing when he’s away from him.

 

It’s early morning by the time they get back. Keith had taken the helm, Lance currently snoozing away with his head on his shoulder. Mona looks out the window, chin propped up in a fist. “I’ll be able to fit in here, right?” She asks, voice small as a mouse.

 

Keith only looks ahead, gaze trained on familiar roads and familiar buildings. “If I could do it, so can you.”

 

_____

 

Keith was twelve. He’d gotten into a fight with another student earlier, and was currently sitting in the waiting line for the principal's office. A boy shuffled by, took a seat next to him, and held out his hand. “Name’s Lance. What’re you in for?” He asks, smiling to his ears.

 

  
He’s hesitant but takes the other kid’s hand nonetheless. “Keith. Gave some kid a black eye. He deserved it. You?”

 

“Oh, uh… My friend hacked into one of our teacher’s emails? And I’m kinda sorta covering for her?” He’s flushed and nervous now, fidgeting in his seat. “Kinda wimpy compared to you.”

 

“Nah, that’s wicked. What did she find?”

 

So that’s how Lance and Keith became friends.

 

Keith was fifteen. He was sitting in Chemistry, half-asleep to one of the lectures when a finger prods him in the cheek. “Psst,” hisses Lance, not very discreetly. “I’m going to the ‘bathroom’. Wanna come with?”

 

He deadpans him as if asking if he’s seriously doubting Keith’s ability to go with his bullshit antics. A smile bursts across Lance’s face, and his hand shoots up like a rocket. He’s easily let to the "bathroom" and winks at Keith before the door closes.

 

They meet up in the hallway and go to retrieve Hunk and Pidge from their world history class.

 

Lance and Keith get into a wrestling match in the back of the school while Hunk and Pidge spy on Iverson’s office. When Lance lands on the dry grass with a huff, looking up at Keith with those deep blue eyes and a smile that makes the heat in his cheeks spread all the way down his neck, that’s when it first hits Keith that maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason he always felt more comfortable about Lance unabashedly throwing pick-up lines at him compared to the other girls that tried to ask him out.

 

He tells them he’s gay four months later. Pidge high-fives him, and Lance only blinks and blurts out that he likes guys, too. He tells Keith the term for it in the form of a pun during one of their Garrison stakeouts (“Lance is on standbi,” he says, giggling childishly to himself. Keith blinks at him, while Pidge’s voice crackles from their walkie-talkies. “Nice,” she says. Lance smugly grins, framing his chin with his index finger and thumb. “Thank you,” he responds, sly.)

 

That’s when the dancing start. The two of them try to act like nothing’s happening like Keith isn’t suddenly blushing at every sort of indirect contact the two have, and Lance isn’t flirting just a little bit harder, reaching out a little bit more.

 

Shiro notices first. Asks if they’re dating. Keith denies it, at first. Then he gets too tired to deny it. 

 

Pidge and Hunk claim they’ve always noticed.

 

Allura still hasn’t noticed. Lance thinks she’s still convinced he has a crush on her.

 

He doesn’t.

 

And now, Keith is suddenly a vital part of their circle. Once an outcast that got into a little too many fights defending his dad and himself, now one of the many nerds that play DnD on the weekends and have arguments about their favorite game series.

 

Mona’s loud. But she’s kind, for the most part, easily fits into new situations and, despite her parents kicking her out for who she is, embraces her identity wholeheartedly. She brings herself to approach absolute strangers in the middle of the desert to make sure they’re okay.

 

So if Keith could do it, Mona could do it, and in tenfold the time it took for him.

 

Because Mona is everything Keith isn’t.

 

_____

 

It’s morning when Keith pulls into his driveway. Lance’s still out cold, hair covering most of his face. Mona looks at him from across the truck as if to ask ‘is this it?’, and hops out of the car when she’s given a curt nod.

 

It takes one gentle shake of Lance’s shoulder to get him awake. He blinks and glares at the house illuminated in front of them, eyes suddenly wide. He bolts up in his seat, ushering Keith out with a fever and taking over the driver’s seat just as fast.

 

Keith should be going up to the door, where Shiro’s no doubt waiting with bated breath. But for some reason, he hesitates once Lance pulls the door shut behind him. His head turns to meet Lance, who’s in the process of rolling down his window. He gestures his head to the door inquisitively. His tan arm appears on the open window, hand just barely outside of the truck and brushing against the door. Tired blue eyes look down at him, unblinking. He looks like he’s holding his breath.

 

He acts quick, unable to bring himself to linger too long. Presses his lips against the side of Lance’s lips, just inside of a boundary where it can be seen as something...more. Lance’s nose scrunches up in the way it does when something tickles him-- his hair? Keith tucks hair behind his ear when he pulls away, offering a lingering smile to him. “Thanks. For coming with me.”

 

“Anytime,” Lance says, though it comes out a little bit choked. “We’re partners in crime for a reason, cowboy.”

 

Laughter bubbles in his chest and escapes past his lips in a startling act that leaves Lance a little star-struck. He pats his hand against the metal of Lance’s door, forcing himself to shove away. “See you around, sharpshooter.”

 

Then he’s spinning on his heels and headed down the driveway, hands in his dad’s old jacket. Shiro opens the door before he even has the chance to step onto the porch, all but tackling him into the ground. He’s got his prosthetic on and squeezing him with all his might. “I was so worried,” he says, voice quiet and broken.

 

“You shouldn’t have been,” Keith manages, voice more of a wheeze. “I’m not that stupid.”

 

Shiro deadpans him when his grip lets up. His gaze travels to someone over his shoulder, standing in the lawn and shuffling her feet nervously. Keith follows his gaze, and his expression softens. “Shiro, this is Mona. Mona, this is Shiro.” Mona waves, taking a few steps forward. “He’s my brother.”

 

_____

 

Lance doesn’t know what he expects when he gets home. His family works like the flip of a coin-- one second they’re loving, the next foaming at the mouth with lethal poison.

 

So when Veronica opens the door, looks him over once or twice, and notes the absence of Keith, his fear is greatly rationalized. “Mami!” She shrieks over her shoulder, “Lance came back!”

 

There’s a thud, and shuffling of slippers on the floor. Fabric slapping on the floor. His mama appears in the door not a second later, hair frizzy and half-way straightened. She speaks in a broken voice, eyes filling with tears. “Mijo,” She manages, before enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. When she pulls back, watery, grateful eyes turn cold and sour. “Eres muy estúpido!”

 

“Siento, Siento!” Cries Lance, trying to pry himself out of the death grip she closes around his ear. “Mama!”

 

“Lance’s home?” Asks Marco, not looking up from his work on the living room as his mama leads him through the house like a parade of shame. He chuckles when Lance lets loose a string of curses directed towards him.

 

Then they’re in the kitchen, which is left entirely empty save for an empty bowl with cereal crumbs dusted around it. “Explain yourself,” his mama hisses, releasing Lance. “It better be good.”

 

“Mi corazón,” Lance says first, wincing at the look his mama gives him. “He needed to go somewhere that wasn’t here to get himself together. He thought he was just running to run, and went to me because I wouldn’t judge. I didn’t. We didn’t do anything wrong, mama, I promise.”

 

The little Pidge that serves as Lance’s common sense practically slaps him, screaming about how you don’t bring up something your parent hasn’t suggested you’ve done, thus insinuating you’ve done said thing. Thankfully, his mama just seems glad to have Lance back (or she was too tired at this point to continue fighting him) and lets out a prolonged sigh. “Did that _flacquito_ cause any trouble for you?”

 

Other than punching him on several occasions and generally trying to get himself shitfaced? “No.”

 

“Lance--”

 

“--I’m not lying to you, mama! Just believe me for once in your life!” Lance mentally kicks himself. “Sorry.”

 

“...You should be.” His mama gives him a cold look, lingering hurt shining through and breaking Lance’s heart all over again. “Go shower. I’ll have a word with Takashi about Keith’s defense before work.”

 

_Godspeed, Keith_ , Lance thinks solemnly, trekking up the stairs. _Godspeed_.

 

He stays in the shower until Veronica’s pounding on the door and shouting at the top of her lungs about how she ‘needs to pee’. He shouts back that there are two more bathrooms in the house, forcing himself out a moment later regardless. She looks him over, winces as the steam slams into her, and laughs. She mutters something about a ‘groove’ and slams the door behind her.

 

Lance’s phone buzzes impatiently on his nightstand when he throws open the door.

 

He only glances at the texts to know that the group chat resurrected itself.

 

The catalyst?

 

Keith.

 

______

 

  
Lance’s mama made him surrender his keys for the rest of the month. Which ended up embarrassing in the sense that he had to ask Veronica to drive him over to Keith’s, and he’s once again fourteen, begging her to drive him to the movies. She was teasing the entire way, despite his insistence that nothing happened on their road trip, and that he was just watching a movie with the rest of his friends.

 

She only scoffed, muttered about how something definitely happened.

 

Shiro answers the door. His prosthetic rests on the doorframe easily, head cocked to the side. He gives a scrutinizing look to Lance. “Troublemaker,” he only says, smiling fondly at Veronica, “Veronica. How’s college?”

 

“Evil. Life was easier when you didn’t have an upcoming thesis hanging over you.” She shudders, pinching her nose. “But it’s summer. I’ll worry later.”

 

“That’s the spirit. I would say to expect to come back here around ten, but--” Shiro looks over his shoulder, “-- I don’t think anyone’s going back to their house tonight.”

 

“I’ll make sure to tell mom. See you around, Takashi.” And with that, Veronica’s gone. Lance coughs nervously, worming his way past Shiro, only for a strong hand to grab his shoulder and stop him. He meets an intense gaze with no certainty within his own.

 

Shiro sighs, loosening his grip. “Don’t let Keith do anything stupid.”

 

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” Lance asks, pulling out from his grip. He flashes him a smile when Shiro’s expression falters. “I’m kidding. Don’t worry, I’ll stop him from doing his extra bullshit. The normal stuff, though? That’s fair game.”

 

And Lance does. Pidge shows up shortly after he did, and almost nut-shoots Keith with her phone. Lance only evades assault by assisting Hunk with the snacks, and when Keith stalks in and hops onto the counter next to him, he doesn’t tease him.

 

Then Allura shows up. She nearly falls flat on her face racing past Shiro, stopping only when she spots an unfamiliar person on the couch. Allura, however, isn’t an idiot, and continues her loud proclamation of, “I just dumped Lotor’s ass!”

 

In an instant, everyone’s scrambling out of the kitchen, crawling over the couch, and generally being loud. Lance thinks that Hunk starts crying at some point, but he only eggs her on as she describes how it went. Apparently, he’s been lying to her for a really long time about his past and started generally being an ass. So she broke things off--finally, she’d been trying to do it for months-- by shoving him to the ground and stepping on his toes.

 

“That’s so badass, marry me,” Mona says, looking like she’d seen Jesus himself. “I’ll worship you every day.”

 

Allura laughs, a light and giddy thing. “I’ll consider it in a few years,” she says, claiming Hunk’s old seat. Lance and Keith claim their old seats beside her. “For now, we drink chocolate milk and enjoy life for our various reasons.”

 

“I’m celebrating getting let off of house arrest in a week,” Lance says, hugging the quarter-full jug of chocolate milk protectively. A guilty look crosses over Keith’s face.

 

“I’ll drink to that,” Mona says, raising her glass. The others mutter agreement.

 

“Oh! Shiro, when’s Keith’s house arrest over?” Lance chirps, leaning over the back of the couch to meet the man who looks more like a beefy deer caught in the headlights.

 

He glances around, planning his escape. “Well, uh… he doesn’t have one?”

 

Everyone erupts into protests, Lance lecturing him on typical parenting. They only go silent when Keith says nothing, only picks at a loose thread on his movie-night ordained pajama pants. “I’d still get out,” he says quietly. No trace of bitterness to Shiro, only wryness. “No point in punishing someone who doesn’t follow orders, right?”

 

“Keith--” Lance begins, voice low. Purple-grey eyes meet him and, for a split second, his walls crumble. But then they’re back up again, and he’s wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

 

“What movie are we watching?”

 

Rough translation: I don’t want to talk about my issues to the only people who can offer support.

 

Fine. Lance can deal with this.

 

Who was he kidding? Of course Lance can’t deal with this. Just… any of this. The movie starts, and everyone’s conversations shut off immediately. Mona has a little notepad out and keeps scribbling notes to herself. Keith inches closer to Lance-- barely noticeable but painfully there. Shiro sits in a chair next to the couch, eyeing them suspiciously. But by the time the first person gets killed off, he’s no longer paying attention.

 

“This movie’s terrible,” Keith hisses in Lance’s ear. He numbly nods in return, their knees brushing against one another.

 

“Horrible.”

 

“But I can’t stop watching it.”

 

“Has that effect on people, doesn’t it? Did the same thing with the fucking Room. Hated that movie, couldn’t blink the entire time.”

 

Keith winces, eyes wired shut as he imagined the pain. “Jesus. Alright, I have a game.”

 

“I’m invested, go on.”

 

“Every time someone looks over their shoulder and we get like… the equivalent of queerbaiting for jumpscares, you eat as much popcorn that can fit in your mouth. First person to give up loses.”

 

“Oh, you are so on.”

 

Lance wins. Of course. It’s all due to his charm, obviously, not because Keith choked on a popcorn kernel or anything. Nope, not at all, Lance is amazing. Everyone else, meanwhile, had fallen into a blissful sleep. Allura had her head tilted to the side, hand dangling over the edge of the couch. Even Mona was asleep, the pen having long since rolled onto the floor and notepad still dormant in her lap.

 

And when you’re the only two people awake, things get weird. Firstly, Lance becomes hyper-fixated on getting closer to Keith, who tells him to stop fidgeting before he kills him.

 

Then Keith starts to talk about how Mona was going to transfer to their school. He explains that her relative that had taken matters into their own hands only lived halfway across town, and was a little too ecstatic when she told them about her recently acquired rag-tag team of queers or, as Lance calls it, the gayest band to ever come around town. “She’s getting picked up tomorrow.” Keith glances at her briefly, before returning his focus to Lance.

 

He decides that’s all and well. He didn’t expect to really see Mona again, let alone go to school with her. Lance inclines his head towards the ceiling, turns just a bit to see a troubled expression no longer forced into hiding. “Are you mad at me?” He asks, voice quiet. His fingers itch to do something. So he starts drumming rhythms on the back of the couch.

 

Lance sputters, choking on absolutely nothing. “What?”

 

“Are you mad at me? For… you know, everything.” Keith gestures vaguely to empty space.

 

“Jesus, no.” He sits upright, shifting to face Keith. Allura grunts unceremoniously in her seat, turning to her side. He puts his hands on either side of Keith’s face, scrunching up his face unintentionally. “Keith, I’d do that a hundred times over if it meant you’d feel better.”

 

“Only a hundred? I’m touched.”

 

“You know what I mean, ungrateful bastard.”

 

“I might be a little more grateful if you make it up to me.” Keith is inches from Lance now, a wicked curve to his otherwise innocent smile.

 

Lance decides that he’s going to die tonight.

 

“Oh yeah?” He breathes. He sees nothing other than grey-lavender eyes and a smirk all too knowing of what power it holds. A hand skims across the bottom of his chin, there is one second and gone the next. Keith only hums in affirmation, breath hot against his face.

 

Well, if Lance is going to die tonight, he’d better die a glorious, glorious death.

 

He bridges the space between the two, a hand snaking around his neck in time with the arm he wraps around Keith’s waist. There’s no taste of alcohol on his lips. No lingering tobacco on his tongue. Just Keith, acting on his own sporadic whims and once again getting nothing but good from it. The weight of the couch shifts as Keith moves, both arms slinging around Lance’s neck when a weight settles in his lap. Hands itching for more to do, Lance runs his hands down the back of Keith’s shirt, sneaks them under and feels up every back muscle that he’d only been granted glimpses of.

 

Slender hands run themselves through Lance’s hair, pushes his head forward, lips still hungrily pressed to his while his hands paint a picture across a shivering canvas. Keith angles his face with a frustrated groan, calloused hand gripping at Lance’s neck tightly. Teeth bite and tug at his bottom lip, forcing a sound of surprise from him. Allura groans again from beside them.

 

Lance and Keith freeze, forcing themselves apart with panting breaths. Slowly, they turn to the people on either side of them. Allura shifts once more, chest still rising and falling in a slow motion. Shiro remains sprawled in his chair, head tilted back and arms limp on either side of him. His phone on the floor lights up with a notification from Adam. Wasn't that one of the science teachers?

 

Then Keith is laughing, a low and breathless sound. His warm forehead presses against Lance’s, and they remain like this, intoxicated and laughing about such a ridiculous thing. “We should probably stop,” he suggests, glancing to Shiro warily.

 

“Yeah, we probably should.” Lance makes no move to shift, still pressed to the back of the couch.

 

“That means get your hands off my ass.”

 

He holds his hands up in surrender and keeps them as such until a glowering Keith vanishes down the hall and a door opens and closes. Then he throws his head back, touching a hand to his burning face. And utters the only words that his mind supplies to him, thoughts chanting it over and over.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

_____

 

Lance loves the water. There’s something about it to him-- being able to just lay here, sound drowned out by the water filling your ears, body weightless as you float along with the current. He could just lay here for hours, eyes closed and basking in the sun.

 

 

But, just as it is with his family, someone always blocks out the sun. The coolness of shade washes over him, and an irrational irritation settles over him as he tries to figure out who had the gall to just block out the sun like that. Opening one eye, he glares at the perpetrator. Only for his other eye to snap open, meeting Keith’s smug face directly above him. “Having fun there, sharpshooter?”

 

“I was,” He says, poking at a pale nose with his bony finger, “until your pasty ass showed up and ruined it.”

 

“I’m hurt,” Keith says, not at all sounding hurt. He snakes a hand around Lance’s wrist, pulling him up until they’re at the same level. He gestures back to the shore, where Allura, Matt, Pidge, and Hunk are currently engaged in an intense game of chicken. “Marco just called. Apparently, Veronica’s high-tailing it over here with an important letter or something.”

 

“‘Important letter or something’ my ass! You know exactly what it is!” Lance cries, desperately breaking into Freestyle to get back to shore. Keith follows in a lesser form, but his enthusiasm is still there, telling from the way he laughs the entire way.

 

“Mona! Have you seen Veronica by any chance?” He shouts, ahead of curly hair turning away from where she sits with Romelle, hands hovering just above her back, coated in sunscreen.

 

“Why the fuck would Veronica be here?”

 

“Letter arrived!” Is his only response, desperately pulling his flip-flops on. This immediately has her attention, hands slapping sunscreen across Romelle before she takes off after him, entirely barefoot. With a grumble, Keith and Romelle follow suit.

 

They come flopping into the parking lot just in time to see Veronica’s car-- equally as shitty as Lance’s, he might add-- high-tailing it directly towards them. She slams on the breaks just in time for Lance to catch up, frantically rolling down the passenger window. Mona and Keith crowd the window on either side of him, peering as a letter is passed from one sibling to the other. He tears it open poorly and reads through the contents with an uncharacteristically serious look.

 

Then he’s slamming the hood of Veronica’s car, grinning to the ears. “I got it!” He says, shoving the letter in her face for a split second before moving on to Romelle and Mona. Then there are lips pressed to his in a sporadic, unintended act of expression. Keith pulls away, smiling just as brightly. “Thanks, Ver! I gotta tell the others,” He explains, waving over his shoulder as he races back down to the lake, nearly tripping over a rock. Waving the letter in the air, he hails the rest of the group. Shiro and Coran even get up from under their umbrella, sunburnt shoulders a painful pink.

 

“I got the scholarship!” He bellows before the four in the water can even make it over. Then he’s enveloped in a bone-crushing hug, wet and sweaty arms strangling him from all sides.

 

“I thought we knew he was going to get it?” asks Romelle when the hug breaks. Mona shrugs, slinging an arm around her waist.

 

“You never really know until you get the confirmation. But,” She says, extending a hand to Lance for a high-five he happily reciprocates, “This now means we’re going to be swimming for the same college, so you better actually teach me how you do butterfly before I actually combust.”

 

“I’ll teach you next week!” Lance calls as he takes off to the umbrella Hunk had shoved into the ground with great force, dragging Keith by the wrist the entire way. “Okay, okay, so you remember how I was having trouble with the last of the chords?”

 

“Which time?” He only asks, plopping himself down on a red blanket, extending a notebook to him.

 

“Uh… Three weeks ago, I think? Anyway, I figured it out. Which means--?”

 

“--The song’s finally done,” Keith says, leaning forward onto his knees. “Are you planning on finally sharing it with me?”

 

“Well yeah, duh, I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I didn’t,” Lance says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if on cue, he pulls his guitar out from behind him, dumping out sand and muttering about needing a new one. “Alright so this song is like, kind of gay, but so are we so.” He shrugs.

 

Keith chuckles, a low sound. He leans his head against Lance’s shoulder, gaze shifting from him to the water ahead of them. “Shut up and start playing before I try and do it myself.”

  
Lance winces inwardly, recalling the last time Keith had attempted anything beyond ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. It was a shitfest. Releasing a deep breath, his hands settle over the strings. He starts playing.

 

And Keith falls in love just a little bit more.

 

But when Lance starts singing?

 

Keith falls into the deep end.

 

_____

 

  
Keith takes a deep breath.

 

Calms his beating heart.

 

Wipes whatever tears threaten to spill.

 

“Hey, dad. It’s been a while, I know. But, you’ll be pleased to know I graduated. Somehow. Amazing, right? I almost didn’t believe it myself.” Another deep, rattling breath. “I applied for a scholarship to some school in Northern California. Other ones, too. We’re trying to stay grouped together since Allura and Pidge got their acceptance letters from Stanford, so… Northern California it is, I guess.”

 

A pause, searching for what else to say. “I wish you were still around. I finally told Lance how I feel and-- well, I might have been yelling about it at the time, but I meant it. Every word. So, I guess we’ve been a thing for a while now? It’s weird. Shiro says you’d be proud. I don’t believe him. I mean, after everything I’ve done?”

 

Beat.

 

“I stopped drinking, by the way. Not like you knew in the first place. Lance convinced me to join his impromptu swim-practices with Mona, so we’ve been breaking into the school’s pool. Thanks for teaching me how to pick locks, by the way. It’s very useful in none of the ways you thought it would be.” He laughs a breathless thing. “I’m thinking about looking for mom. Even if she never really did anything for us. I just want some answers. you didn’t really leave me much information on her, either so thanks, dad. But a photograph and some old letters are better than nothing. Yeah. Gotta be positive. I… I miss you, dad. I didn’t mean what I said the day before you-- but you probably know that by now. If mom’s up there, tell her I said hi. I’ll be back same time next year. Maybe I should write out what I want to say?”

 

Keith starts rambling as he stands up, hesitating and reading over the headstone’s engraving.

 

He pauses.

 

There’s a bouquet of purple hyacinths nestled just below whatever description Shiro had put under his birth and death date.

 

Shiro hadn’t visited the graveyard since the funeral.

 

Must’ve been his old co-workers.

 

Trudging away from the grave, he approaches Lance’s shitty truck, greeting Mona’s out-of-it expression with a small wave. She blinks, turning her head to face him. “Lance, he’s back,” She says over her shoulder, shoving open the door and hopping down. She holds the door open, gesturing grandly to the inside. The hand she uses to prop open the door gets pelted by rain, the rest of her protected by Keith's red umbrella. "After you, sir," says Mona grandly while Keith quickly folds his umbrella and shoves it under the passenger seat, nearly throwing himself into the middle seat

 

“Why thank you,” Keith says with a teasing smile. He nudges Lance, who has his eyes trained on a different section of the cemetery. “You alright?”

 

Lance blinks, clouded eyes clearing. He nudges Keith back, kissing the side of his head like nothing had happened. “Perfectly fine. Just thinking.”

 

“You? Thinking? A miracle.”

 

He sputters, spouting defensive words as he shoves the truck back into drive, nearly flooring it out of the cemetery.

 

With his head resting on Lance’s shoulder, nodding along seriously to his bullshit excuse for why he was zoning out, Keith almost feels like the weight on his heart can lift. Mona captures their attention by tapping the passenger window, gazed trained on a light shining through dark clouds on the horizon. “Monsoon might let up soon,” she says, sending Lance into a rant about how monsoons ruin a perfectly good rainstorm.

 

It was June. The monsoon wasn’t easing up. Not that Keith particularly cared, anyway.

 

Monsoons always pass.

 

 

  
  
_____

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**Thanks for letting me be the first person to hear the whole thing ♡** _

_I'll always let you listen first._

 

 

 

_Lance's kick-ass song!!_

_Started: 2/13/17_

_Finished: 6/22/18_

 

_Note to future Lance: this is the final draft of the chorus!! **Do not cross this out!!**_

 

 

_If I finish this one song now, I can deal with the consequences later_

_But I didn’t know that if I finished this now, you wouldn’t have ended up in the melody_

_So I put my song on pause, let my aching hands fall, and opened my eyes_

_And then it was just you, me, the universe and the sea_

_But if I finish this now, they’ll all go away_

_Leaving me behind with a broken symphony._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the song my Florence + the Machine! Check the band out if you haven't because,, god,, this is some witchy music if I've ever heard it
> 
> ___
> 
> So this was my first one-shot that was originally meant to be a vent-ish sort of thing?? But it didn't end up going that way because I haven't been in that mindset for a while lmao,, but!! It was fun to write? Anyway, this is the last thing I'm going to write and then immediately post because I got put on arm house arrest again so I'm not even supposed to be typing this but a bitch gotta post and update her fics
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @Hekaerge-Athenias if you want to chat or ask any questions!


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